


Four Kisses

by Aithilin



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Awkward Kissing, F/M, Fluff, Kissing, M/M, NOT Johnlock, Surprise Kissing
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-02-16
Updated: 2014-02-16
Packaged: 2018-01-12 15:12:13
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,093
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1189806
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Aithilin/pseuds/Aithilin
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Four important kisses in Sherlock’s life. Three of them just don’t feel right, but the fourth one is perfect. </p>
<p> </p>
<p>  <i>Not Johnlock, despite the beginning.</i></p>
            </blockquote>





	Four Kisses

They tried once. It was a kiss— to test the waters, relieve the tension that half of London seemed to think existed, to _experiment_. It was slow and cautious, a gentle press and clear uncertainty. It was a clutch at a shirt, and a careful pull close together in the quiet privacy of the living room. Perched on the sofa, laptops and television forgotten once this experiment was proposed— a response to the never ending stream of chatter in comments and on forums of their respective sites, and a piece in the news about the latest private case sparking fresh speculation. 

It started with a light touch of John pushing forward— trying to pry at the matter like it was something he could determine was black or white, something that could be coaxed open or fixed. Examined and dissected while the world hummed with speculation around them.

At the first quirk of lips, it dissolved into fits of giggles. A playful shove, a quick insult, and their opinions were cemented. 

They were best friends, nothing more, and nothing less. 

—*—

After Mary, after his return to London, it happened again. Emotions were high, they were both in turmoil, Mary had settled into a cautious watch— waiting for an axe to fall and cut her off completely. Sherlock had gone through loneliness, isolation, pain, and fear for two years before the new upheaval that was his old life being replaced with something new and foreign. It came during one early morning of a disrupted routine— two people uncertain with how to live together again. 

It was Sherlock who forced it. He pushed and pried, tried to dissect his own anxiety and jealousy at every angle, and this was the hypothesis he chose to test. At the time, as he threw everything— every emotion, desire, longing, and fear— into pressing John against the wall by the bathroom, he thought he had laid himself bare. 

Laid himself open to what he wanted and what was his to demand. 

He expected the punch. 

When he fell back, wide-eyed and out of breath, watching John for some sign of a coming fight, Sherlock realized that he was wrong. Had been wrong. _Was_ wrong. 

It could have been an hour; it could have been a second, before the tension snapped between them. In that narrow hallway, dishevelled and flushed, both men laughed at how ridiculous they were. John teased him for the blush before he offered to make tea. Sherlock teased John about the weakened punch before he accepted the offer. 

And they went about their day with a fresh understanding. 

—*—

It came up nearly a year later. Mothering Sunday and they were up late with drinks and stories while an infant girl slept in a cot upstairs. It was a day for Mary, and Sherlock had stopped by with a card and small gift. He and John had left for most of the afternoon with the baby— to the park, on errands, Sherlock sending pictures of a happy father showing his daughter the world back home. There was a small dinner, a quiet time with Sherlock invited in, and then drinks. 

They had admitted it then. Already giggling and light, John teasing and Sherlock laughing, they talked about the first one (“You should have seen how scared he was, Mary!”, “John couldn’t keep a straight face for a week afterwards; I brought up the memory as often as I could to make him laugh.”) and the second (“Should have broken your nose, you dick”, “It was entirely my error.”). They meant it to be a confession— talked about on the walk home— to make sure there were no more secrets between them. 

They expected Mary’s laughter and teasing. They hadn’t expected her telling them that she wished she had a picture of it (“Oh come on! My two good-looking boys, I want a picture of you snogging now!”). 

With a laugh, John pulled Sherlock in. There was wine, and giggles, and teasing (“Really, John, I can tell now that you are _definitely_ straight”). 

Sherlock blushed when Mary caught the potential in that admission. 

—*—

None of the kisses had been right. There was no fit to them— experiments, mishandled emotion, teasing— nothing beneath the surface other than a firm reminder that they were friends. That fit them. That felt right. 

Sherlock just assumed that it would be the same with all of his friends. There was no tension with anyone else to push against and experiment on. There was no curiosity or fear, or desire to prove something to the world.  


Which is why he was so surprised. 

It was late, it was cold. A case had taken them up north— John dutifully home as a contact point because he had patients and a daughter and a wife, and Lestrade was so much better equipped to handle the case— not far from Edinburgh. They were just a fresh pair of eyes to look in and consult; no action, no crime. But Lestrade had the weight of his career behind him, and Sherlock had his curiosity about a case he couldn’t even skirt the edges of without this invitation and supervision. 

It was late, and they were cold. Lestrade’s lighter was the only light on the small hotel balcony. The city around them was still lit, and the promise of a morning plague tour kept them both awake and chatting about the gruesome history of the old city they could recall. 

He was mid-word when it happened. Old knowledge of strange murders and tales of devils that ride the streets in black carriages keeping his eyes light and his body tense with excitement, even if he didn’t believe that there was a witch and warlock team who brought the city to its knees. Every story about the gifted pickpockets and clever constables had excited him about the trip. 

And Lestrade caught the word. 

It was quick, and silencing, and they stared at each other in shock for a long moment after. 

“Sorry, Sherlock, I—“

Sherlock caught him— cut him off as rudely, as sweetly, as he had been cut off. A cold hand pressed to the back of a thicker neck to pull Lestrade closer. They tasted of cigarettes and fine whiskey (an insistence of Lestrade’s, if he was to be dragged along to the tombs of the plague), and the cold air drove them apart again fast enough. 

Red cheeked and red lipped, Sherlock grinned at Lestrade, a buzz of energy and excitement and confirmation. The older man grinned back.

**Author's Note:**

> I do also have a [Tumblr](http://aithilin.tumblr.com) where I post updates and silly things more often; and take requests.


End file.
